


Dead of Night

by 13atoms (2Atoms)



Category: The Great (TV 2020)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:28:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25267621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms
Summary: You had hoped to spend your whole life free from your duty of marriage, free to wander the halls of the palace and enjoy your time with your best friend, Count Orlo. Upon finding out you were to be married, and forced to leave him, you seek him out in the dead of night.
Relationships: Count Orlo / Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	Dead of Night

The guards outside Orlo’s chambers attempted to halt you as you barged past them, their usual stoicism faltering, confusion and frowns greeting you as they noticed your face puffy and wet with tears.

“Miss –” One began, but you ignored him.

You opened the door yourself, roughly dragging your skirts through the narrow gap as the guards fumbled to stop you.

“Please?”

They were used to you being here, requesting entrance to his quarters, but it was improper to just walk in unannounced. It was past midnight. Your eyes were blurred with tears, voice torn to shred by your grief, as you pleaded with them.

“I need to see him.”

You knew they would spread rumours, especially when you entered so late at night, but it wouldn’t be a concern for you anymore.

Tears kept falling as you pleaded with them.

“Is he in there?”

“He’s asleep, Miss.”

As you tried to move past them again, uncaring of the weapons laid against their shoulders as you pushed against the nearest guard’s arm where he barred you from getting further inside the Count’s quarters.

You gripped the arm the guard was holding you with, hoping he could see your desperation.

“Wake him up. _Please_.”

The pair silently conferred, and you could see the hesitation on their faces.

“He won’t mind. I promise.”

“He said to always let her in,” you heard hissed, from the less resistant guard, who had returned to his post. “Move aside.”

The guards always avoided making a scene where possible. They let you walk into the pitch black entryway of his apartments, unlit by the sliver of moon outside. The darkness distorted the familiar room, causing you to question your steps as you navigated without light to the next set of doors. They opened noiselessly, and you stole through, too panicked to close them behind you.

The drawing room was creepier at night, and you mourned not seeing this place and all its beauty one last time. You took short, cautious steps across the carpet, hands reaching out until you found the door to Orlo’s bedroom.

It gave beneath your hands, brushing against the carpet as the well-oiled hinges moved effortlessly.

A burnt stack of wood was still smouldering in the fireplace, giving you enough light to see his sleeping form, wrapped up on his oversized bed. His hair had come loose in his sleep, barely half of it fixed behind his head as the rest of it spilled across his pillow. He was so peaceful, his face holding none of his waking tension, on arm clutching the pillow beside him to his chest.

You had no time to take in the vision of him.

“Orlo!” You hissed, making him react slightly in his sleep.

When his eyes remained closed, you grabbed his shoulder, shaking him awake.

“What the fuck –”

Groggy and slow, he wiped at his eyes, frowning as he turned to look at you. You withdrew your hand, praying he wouldn’t be mad.

After all, if he had remained asleep, you could likely never see him again.

He said your name in confused recognition, finally sitting up a little, pulling his hair back self-consciously as you stood over his bed. You toed off your shoes as he took you in, inviting yourself to sit atop the covers beside, shivering in the cold air of the palace.

His movements were still shaky, sluggish, but he pulled the blankets aside when he saw how you were shaking. Fully clothed you clambered into his bed beneath the sheets, reaching for him like a child after a nightmare.

“What’s wrong?”

Sleep had left his voice deeper, raspy.

“I have to leave.”

“What do you mean?”

“They found a marriage for me. Away from the palace. I am to leave tomorrow.”

“What? To who?”

With wakefulness came Orlo’s panic, and he sat further upright, eyes searching yours in the orange-tinged firelight.

“And why so soon?”

“My father’s friend has a nephew, some Count. Thirty years my senior. They have arranged my betrothal to him, and he lives five days ride from the palace, and I don’t get a choice, I have to go. The carriage is already ordered and they say I have no other choice at my age, I –”

You could hear yourself getting hysterical, clutching at the man beside you, who you would shortly be ripped away from. He was your best friend in the world, the highlight of your time at the palace, and you had mere hours before you would never have the agency to visit him again.

“Wait, you said he’s a Count?”

You nodded against his arm, a physical feeling of sickness in your stomach from grief. Orlo seemed stuck on the fact, eyebrows furrowed, body tensed.

“He’s rich. I will be marrying up. But I don’t want to go–”

“What is his name?”

“Count Yahontov.”

You didn’t miss how Orlo stilled, pulled you tighter to his side.

“Orlo?”

“Have you met the man before?”

“No.”

After a pause, you interrogated him.

“Have you?”

Orlo nodded, swallowed, and you could tell he wanted to say more.

“Speak freely,” you mumbled.

“I hate him.”

You startled a little, pulling the blankets up to your shoulders as Orlo’s grip grew tighter, his words spat out harsher.

“He’s rude, entitled, inherited everything he has and spends it on… on whores and luxuries while his people starve and endure failing infrastructure on his lands. He rarely visits the palace on duty, and when he did last he just got piss-drunk with Peter... he has always treated the rest of us like dirt.”

“That’s horrendous.”

“Well, I am not the one marrying him.”

He was attempting to joke, voice thick with emotion, and you began to sob.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” he mumbled condolences and apologies against the crown of your head, but nothing worked.

You were inconsolable.

His shoulder was bare from how his nightclothes had slipped, and you almost gasped at his skin on your face as he guided you head to lay on him. You knew his skin would be wet with your tears, his body stinging from the dig of your fingernails, and still you wanted to hold him tighter.

“So he’s a monster!” you choked out, your fear only growing by the second.

Orlo sighed.

“I’m sorry I told you that. You didn’t need my cynicism on top of everything.”

You heaved a breath, your chest aching with the realisation you might never hear his voice again.

“No. I should… prepare myself. For how it will be.”

“Fucking Yahontov… I would rather have you marry a pauper than that bastard.”

The fight had left you, your voice empty and hollow in the quiet of the room.

“I have no choice.”

Orlo’s hand curled around your waist, against the hard material of your bodice, gripping you like he might prevent you from being ripped away. You could hear him breathe.

“I am to become his fucking _wife_ , and he will do what he wants with me. Prevent me from reading or walking alone, make me have his children –”

Hissing, Orlo’s grip around your waist grew tighter. You changed the subject, voice weepy.

“I will miss you. More than I can express.”

“I just… I cannot imagine my life here without you,” he admitted.

Never had you heard him so broken, even after enduring and witnessing Peter’s cruelty, or being shot down meeting after meeting. Your heart ached with how empathetic he was, how you would miss his venting to you late at night, the occasional time where he felt the needed for alcohol to soothe the pain, and demanded you be the only person to indulge with him. Laying silly with inebriation, together on his bedroom floor, you had formed some of your fondest memories.

Life was, soon, to be without him. Without your jokes and comfort and his newfound excitement from the coup. You hoped he would be safe, and that you might be informed how it went. You would be too far from the action to know.

How would he fare, without you? You relied upon each other so heavily, you would be lost without him.

It broke your heart.

“When did you find out?” he mumbled, his breath against your hair as he spoke.

“An hour and a half ago, at most. I would have told you if I had known sooner. You are my closest friend.”

“And you, mine.”

The room fell to silence as you tried to bask in Orlo’s company, indulging in your desperate sadness and letting him hold you. You felt as though you missed him already.

“You will be so far away…”

“I know.”

Your head on his shoulder allowed you to feel him breathing, the rise and fall of his chest. Your stomach turned at the thought of being this close to some other man, someone who was not him. You had never known tactile comfort like you had with Orlo, even as he remained perceived as a court joke, famously a touch-shy virgin, he would let you hug and cuddle him to your heart’s content.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Scared.”

“I should imagine so.”

This was it. No more could you pretend to be too young and free from the burdens of your womanhood in society. Marriage had always felt abstract, looming so far away on your winding journey that it was fuzzy and unconcerning. You had been able to pretend your lifestyle could continue forever, wandering around the palace, indulging in culture and the drama of this ridiculous place. Most of all, when you imagined your future, there was only one man clearly in focus. And you were being ripped from him.

You mourned what could have been, had Orlo felt the same fondness for you as you for him. If you had not valued your friendship too much to risk asking for more from him.

Perhaps your husband would not mind if he wrote to you, sometimes. You felt sure you would not be allowed to write back.

“I’m _really_ scared, Orlo.”

“I would be too,” he reassured you.

You loved his empathy, how he listened, comforted you. Never thought less of your vulnerability if you showed it.

“I had no idea he was so poorly regarded. I promise, I would not have chosen someone you did not favour.”

“I know.”

He cleared his throat, trying to sound less emotional, before he spoke again.

“I’ll speak to whoever chose him. I’ll…”

“We leave at daybreak. They gave me no time,” you told him, defeat tinting every word you said. “They did it on purpose, I am sure.”

“They knew you would be smart enough to run, otherwise.”

To someone less familiar with his mannerisms, Orlo’s words might have sounded joking. You could hear the strain in his voice.

You breathed out a laugh.

“Certainly,” you agreed. “God, I cannot believe he is such a bastard.”

“Wretched people, Counts.” Orlo agreed, and you laughed, one hand lightly hitting his chest in mock-punishment.

“I can think of a few good ones, who might provide counterexamples…” you teased.

“Like who?”

“I am quite fond of Count Vorontsov”

Orlo mimed shock as the more dramatic women of the court showed it, clutching one hand to his chest and gasping. You giggled at him as he pretended to groan.

“You wound me, dear lady.”

Suddenly a wave of sadness overtook your joy, an ache in your chest as you realised how much you cherished having Orlo in your life.

“You know I am joking.”

“Of course.”

His equal instant sincerity, how he read your mood like his most well-thumbed tomes, only amplified the fall of your mood. You wrapped an arm around his waist, and he moved to cater for you, both of you beneath his sheets as you rested your face on his chest, both of you slumped against pillows which smelt of him.

“I have never met a nobleman as kind as you.”

You tried to stop you chin digging into his chest, even as you clung onto him.

He pulled your hair from your face when it fell in the way, the fire still crackling to nothing, the light dimming further.

“You are just flattering me.”

“Really, I am not.”

You mourned what could have been, your sheer unluck, to be pulled away from the palace. You had always hoped for a boring husband, who might allow you to keep your friendship with Orlo. You cared for that relationship more than any other you would have to forge.

With a sigh, you caught his attention, his eyes on you and his fingers rubbing your shoulder in comfort.

“I don’t want to go. I’ve never even kissed a man before.”

Your words came out as a confession, although you were sure Orlo knew. He sighed, and you felt the give of his lightly-clothed body against yours.

“I hate that your first will be him.”

“In fact, hate does not begin to describe how I feel.”

He was shaking. From fear or anger or something more, you could not place.

“I had hoped it might be you.” You whispered.

He gasped, subtly but certainly, hand loosening on your corseted waist.

His rejection should not matter now. You felt sure you could never see his face again, that you had shared your last time together in daylight. The darkness of the night was all you had left, and at dawn you would leave.

And yet as he remained silent, you regretted tinging your last memory with him with the bitterness of his unresponsiveness.

“I apologise. I should not have said that.”

He shook his head, dismissing your apology, and you felt his long hair dance across your shoulders.

“No. You are too beautiful for me,”

“And you too clever for me.”

“I do not believe that to be true,” he whispered.

You felt your pulse quickening and hoped he could not tell.

“I rather think it is. In case I never tell you, Orlo, there is not a soul in Russia too beautiful for you. I hope you find someone who reminds you of that.”

He hummed behind you, his chin resting on your scalp. You paid no mind to the state his stubble would leave your hair in. You had no desire to look appealing to anyone else.

“Thank you.”

“I wish we had more time,” you sighed. “I am to wed a man who is neither.”

“Neither what?”

“Neither beautiful nor clever. Not from your assessment of him, at least.”

When Orlo stayed silent, not correcting you, you knew he agreed. You sighed, feeling Orlo exhaling too, the arm wrapped around his warm torso sinking slightly.

“Your first kiss does not have to be with Count Yahontov.”

His words were so quiet, you almost believed they were auditory hallucinations, your own yearning manifesting them. Only Orlo’s fingers against your face, brushing your hair aside once again, confirmed to you the reality of his suggestion.

“Then who?”

You refused to be made a fool of. To get your hopes up when he was offering nothing more than friendly advice. He had to tell you, outright, if he was truly willing to elect himself for the role.

You could feel him gathering confidence behind you, rolling his shoulders, swallowing.

“Me?”

The mumbled word was music to your years. And deadly serious.

“You would do that for me?”

“I assure you, it would not be a selfless favour.”

It almost hurt, for these to be the circumstances under which you could finally act upon your feelings for your best friend. Cowering in his bed, terrified of the future which awaited you, being kissed only as an act of pity.

You pushed against his chest to sit under your own strength, faces level once again, side by side against the pillows. You tried to search his deep brown eyes, cursing the lowlight for how it concealed the true beauty of his irises, the fan of his eyelashes. Was he sincere? You thought so, believing joking about your insecurity to be far beyond his capabilities.

He had never been cruel to you. You trusted him.

“How do I...?”

“Let me,” he promised, freeing his hand to cup your face.

His fingers were dexterous, strong, guiding your jaw until your noses almost touched.

“Sure?” he muttered.

You nodded, relishing the feeling of his thumb on your cheekbones, certain he could feel the movement.

He kissed you.

Chaste, like the kisses you saw between the Emperor and Empress, or the very unhappily married couples in the corridors. You had barely felt the press of his full lips before he was pulling away again, stroking at your face to comfort you, as you forgot to breathe. Your eyes had only just snapped closed, instinct finally superseding your nervousness, for it to be over so soon.

You went to mumble your thanks, disappointment heavy in your chest, regretting pressuring him into a kiss which only ignited your yearning for him. No words left your mouth.

He gave you no time to speak.

Suddenly he kissed you again. This time was different. Like the lovers who snuck around in the palace gardens, giving into the pleasures of their bodies, instead of the vows of loyalty most were bound by. It was the kiss of a passionate man, like Leo exchanged with Catherine, leaving your mind blank and racing, all at once.

Romantic.

The kiss was romantic. Filled with passion, like the passion described in the fiction books you would both sheepishly exchange, and struggle to discuss without your faces heating up.

It left you weakened, desperate for breath, staring at him, eyes glassy. You had to consciously focus in order to see him, to take in your best friend’s face. His lips were wet, eyelids fluttering open like he was afraid to meet your gaze. You could still feel the brush of his stubble against your face, his grip on you making you feel weak.

“Thank you,” you breathed, chest clenching, heart pounding.

“How dare you thank me?”

You frowned, and he smiled wide.

“I cannot recall a time when I did not want to do that.”

Shocked, you laughed breathlessly, feeling the drying of tears pinching at your cheeks.

“Then we are both idiots.”

He frowned sharply, the movement so sudden it made you pull back from his hand, mimicking his displeasure without realising.

“What do you mean?”

“I have wanted to kiss you for years. I assumed I was not… worthy.”

“Fuck.”

He looked devastated, where you had hoped for elation. In the late night peace of the palace, you could hear how he ran his fingers through his hair, bowed his head into his hand, defeated.

“God, Orlo. We have wasted all this time–”

You wanted to sob. Yell. Kiss him again.

“No! Do not say wasted. I can fix this…”

“You can’t,” you interjected, trying to make him see reason. _Just let me enjoy this moment…_

“I can. I will.”

He was working himself up, his conviction at odds with his slim chances of changing matters. It was too late, foolish to fight someone as powerful as your fiancé-to-be. There was nothing to be done. You felt his hands trembling with determination, gripping on to you, and you wished you had made a move sooner.

You sought out his lips, your nose bumping his, breaths hot against each other’s faces. His body relaxed towards you as he leant into your third kiss, cheeks relaxing under fingers as his jaw moved. You could feel his tongue, wet, warm, making you groan into his mouth as he kissed you deeper than before.

Want for him, longing to wake up and go to bed just to have those lips against yours, made you lightheaded. You barely thought as you spoke, his hungry eyes staring into yours.

“Let me have you tonight. That is all I want, I swear.”

“Are you sure –” he questioned, cut off by your fingers touching his lips.

“More than anything. I want you.”

He was panting, lips close to yours. You knew the stories he would be telling himself inside his own head, that he was not good enough, that he would disappoint you. You wanted to push all those insecurities away, let him take you, feel him inside of you just once.

“I could not take advantage…”

“You have never been anything less than a perfect gentleman, that is what I love about you. One of many things.”

He stilled, his body shifting from yours slightly. You remained still, eyes wide with the fear you had pushed him too far. With some fumbling in the darkened room, he lit a candle.

“I want to see you.”

With the newfound flicker of orange candlelight, flame streaming high from the candleholder on his bedside table, you could see the lust on his face.

You reached for your corset, letting him help you pull at the laces, the pair of you struggling with a task which took your maids mere seconds. He grumbled as the loosened fastening would not come undone, making you giggle. The sound of his laugh grounded you, comforted you.

This was not any man. This was your closest friend, the person you trusted most in the world. He startled when you kissed him again, breaking away to regard you with amusement, before finally freeing you of your dress.

You kicked the fine garment aside, letting it wrinkle and dirty on the floor beside his bed.

It didn’t matter anymore.

The pair of you spent time learning each other’s bodies, kissing and admiring and experimenting, and you shuddered at the realisation you had fantasised about this moment. About seeing him exposed, being allowed to touch all the parts of him your previous, platonic relationship had banished.

Orlo perhaps felt the same, touching every inch of your skin reverently, giggling at the reactions he could draw from.

He learnt quickly as he began to focus on preparing you for his cock, his fingers slipping across you, teaching him what to do. When he entered you, making you both groan at the stretch, he kissed you sweetly.

The pleasure and charm of the moment almost made you cry, as Orlo thrust into you, muttering sweet words to you as he grew closer and closer, struggling to keep a rhythm with both his cock and his fingers, until you both cried out with pleasure.

He held you, both of you slicked with sweat, as he came inside of you. It felt like a claim, his fingers biting into your shoulders, his hips still minutely bucking into yours. You held him tightly atop you, uncaring of the way he crushed you into the mattress, determined to commit every second with him to memory.

As he held you, dazed and savouring the moment, you caught tears beginning to fall from your eyes.

A feeling of sheer _stupidness_ enveloped you, as you cried in his arms. The happy memories you had hoped to forge were destroyed, his fingers playing with the ends of your hair as you once again contemplated what the future held for you.

Surely, not sex like this. This was sex between lovers. Respectful and generous and pleasurable. Loving.

After all this time, you could finally see Orlo for what he should have been all along; your lover.

The whispers about you in the halls had been cruel, unfounded, and yet in hindsight, a sign of what you should have been.

Every murmur that the pair of you were smitten with one another suddenly rang true. Had everyone but yourselves seen it? So caught up in your own heads, torturing yourselves with the unreciprocated nature of your feelings, had you simply missed the signs?

Orlo pulled you of you, body still clinging to yours, selecting a small blanket to sacrifice rather than cleaning up properly. You lay still, sated, as he organised you in the bed, rejoining your body once his sheets were saved.

His leg was thrown over yours, one arm around your waist, holding you protectively tight. You had expected him to simply fall asleep, the gossip from other ladies at court causing you to giggle at how their husbands were instantly unconscious. Orlo remained very much conscious, making sure you were comfortable.

There was a possessive growl in his voice as he checked you were alright, pulled you tight to his soft body.

“I cannot bear to give you over to him. Not now.”

You let yourself smile, the fantasy of staying here cheering you for a moment.

“I wish I didn’t have to go.” You placated, hoping he would remember this night fondly, with no regrets.

“You do not.”

You sighed.

“I do. He is rich and powerful and –”

He cut you off.

“So what? I am more rich. More powerful.”

His arm squeezed your for just a second, making you gasp. You hated to admit you liked it when Orlo bragged. Self-assuredness suited him, on the rare occasion he exhibited it.

“You will not risk your neck for my sake!”

You wanted to sound assertive, knowing the risks of starting infighting between nobles. Troublemakers rarely lasted. Your words came out weak.

“Do not tell me what I will not do.” He growled, words firm and determined, whispered into your ear.

You shivered at the feeling of his breath against your skin, at the boldness in his voice.

Not wanting to start a fight while you savoured this bittersweet moment, you said nothing back. Nodding instead, you let him mull on his words, finally letting sleep encroach upon you, pulling your eyes closed.

Pulling your body forwards with him as he moved, Orlo blew out the candle which was shortening to the base on his bedside table. He rocked you back against the mattress, and you took a moment to adjust to just feeling his body, knowing his position from his skin against yours.

Perhaps you would get a few hours’ rest here, body warmed by Orlo’s. Maybe your escorts would be unable to find you in the morning, safely hidden in the Count’s apartments, forcing them to leave without you in their strict custody.

It was an unlikely dream, but one which comforted you as your breathing evened out, and you finally drifted off to sleep.

*

You woke alone, equally hurt and confused. It was still dark, the edges of the heavy curtains being tinged with the sickly-blue first light of dawn, and there was shouting outside.

They had found you. You scrambled to cover yourself, fearing the footsteps closing in on the closed doors of Orlo’s bedroom, before hearing the heavy stomping silenced.

One voice, you recognised. Orlo.

They had found you, and Orlo refused to let them take you. You pulled the covers close, cringing at your dress strewn across the floor, praying he would keep Count Yahontov’s men away.

You couldn’t bear to listen, unable to make out words, only the fight in each man’s tone. Finally, someone retreated.

The opening of the door was gentle, but still made you startle, and you were relieved to see the man you had hoped for. Dressed fully in his daytime finery and fingers already stained with ink, he must have been up for hours.

He sat heavily on the bed, exhaling shakily. He had won, it seemed. There was no further commotion outside. You knew arguing in such a way was beyond his character, making him shake with nervousness and stumble over his sentences. He gave you a nervous smile.

You were glad he would do that for you.

Your voice was rough with sleep as you greeted him, holding the sheets to your chest as you leant forwards to him.

“What happened?”

Abruptly, Count Orlo stood, rounding the bed to be near your side. You frowned.

“He cannot marry an engaged woman, so I sent them away. I hope you do not mind…”

You were confused, frowning at him, noticing his hands shake as he reached into his waistcoat pocket.

“Of course not, I am grateful you sent them away, I just do not understand…”

With an almost-apologetic tilt of his head he opened the ring box, and dropped to one knee at your bedside.

**Author's Note:**

> Im @13atoms on tumblr! More posted over there :)


End file.
